nestled in the lee of a thick flint wall guys taut, grappling to hold firm our canvas castle shook and shuddered flimsy but somehow reassuring respite as mountain giants prowled through the night inside, hunched low over his stove blue flames licking around the pan Pops whistled a calming retort; his gourmet dish to warm us up bangers ‘n beans in a tin camp cup we ate and we watched through the half closed flap as lightning struck nearby - so, while thunder grumbled at the drumming rain (still in coats, with hats on heads) we stretched out on our blow-up beds father and son fishing had been the plan on the shores of the lake that weekend but different memories, caught by different lines were shaped and set in that storm as Pops read me ‘The Hobbit,’ all cosy snug and warm